Although Monica had often gossiped to Laura in a complaining tone, this was the most negative she had ever heard her, and as lunch went on she opened up more and more: how Archie thought it was time for their elder daughter, Barbara, to go to school in England, but that Monica couldn’t bear to have her so far away; how their younger daughter was talking in an American accent and Monica found it horribly disconcerting; and, embarrassingly, how Monica had lost interest in sex. ‘Archie keeps wondering why I don’t want it any more; I was like a bitch on heat, my dear, when we met – even when I was pregnant – but the last year or two I just can’t be bothered. I look around the men at a party like last night’s, and I think I’d rather go to bed with you or you or you than my own husband – sorry, darling, I’m shocking you. I’m shocking myself.’ And to Laura’s dismay, the corners of Monica’s mouth turned down. Not knowing how to comfort her, Laura offered her a drink.
As she went to pour the drink, she wondered to herself why it was that she found Monica’s confidences so difficult to respond to. She would like to relax into intimacy with her, but she felt apprehensive that the price of such intimacy might be the expectation of similar confidences from her. And even if the inexorable need for secrecy was not always there for her, in a way she felt that Monica was breaking a delicate code of conduct; that there was something threatening to one’s married intimacy in telling such problems to others. But Monica did not seem to notice her unease, and took the martini she brought her eagerly.
‘I am awful, going on about my own problems when you are still grieving for your father.’
Laura corrected her, startled, telling her that all that was behind her now, but she could tell that Monica did not believe her. Was her manner, so flat and uncertain, that of a grieving daughter?
After Monica left it was almost dusk, and Laura found herself half asleep on the sofa. She was still thinking over what Monica had said: how could it be that she was grieving for her father, when she had felt more relief than sadness during the funeral? She had walked away from her childhood home the day she had stepped onto the ship in 1939; she had never wanted to go back there. She had left as quickly as she could after the funeral. And yet it did feel as though there was an absence in her life, at this time when surely she should feel more complete than ever. Was it the absence of war? Was it the absence of any work? Yes, she missed having a role, a purpose in this indifferent city. She could not match Edward’s excitement about the forthcoming birth.
As she thought about Edward and the fact that they were to be a family, she found her hands moving to cover her mouth. Other families filled her thoughts. She was thinking about Monica, and about her lack of love – her apparent contempt, it seemed – for Archie. She was thinking about Ellen, and the difference between the relationship she seemed to have now with Tom and the romantic letters she had written during the war. She was thinking about Mother, and how she still tried to keep up the pretence that she had never sat across the table from Father in dread of his anger, never walked quietly through her own house for fear of disturbing him. You are the only woman you know, Laura told herself, who can be sure in her love. Don’t be afraid of the change to come.
Edward came in late, the tiredness etched into his face. He walked into the living room where Laura was lying on the sofa and sat down with a glass of gin, picking up a book that was lying on one of the shelves beside him. Laura sat up, stretched a little, and realised she wanted to tell him about the thoughts that had been passing through her mind.
‘You know you said I was low – I think I am worried …’
Edward put his finger in the book he was holding, and looked up. ‘It is frightening for you – but I’m sure it will all be all right. The doctor said you were going along fine, didn’t he? I found out today that I’m going to be expected to go with the ambassador on a speaking tour in a couple of weeks, but that’s still well before your date.’
Laura tried to explain that it was not fear about the birth that was dragging her down, or at least not the physical reality of the birth. Trying to convey what bothered her, she found herself returning to that moment many years ago when she had first been told about the possibility of a finer way of life. Whenever she travelled back to the memory of the Normandie in her mind, she found those few days still bright and clear into her mind. The promise of the future. ‘When I first met Florence, when she told me what communism would do for people, it was something she gave me to read. It was really impressive. Even today I remember every word—’